Darling Heart
by energis121
Summary: Series of random A/G one-shots, ranging from fluff to angst, and everything in between. Most stories will be inspired by songs/certain lyrics, though they will not be actual songfics. Ratings may vary as well, but the general rating is T for now. The title of the series itself is taken from 'Hardest of Hearts' by Florence and the Machine.
1. The Fates Are Devious By Heart

_A/N: So, yours truly caught a cold - rather unfortunate this time of year, but what can you do? So, seeing as my head is pounding and my roommate has confined me to bed rest, there is not much for me to do but make vids or write random stories. I've had the idea of starting what every fanfic writer is bound to do at some point in time, which is to make a series of random one-shots and post them in one place. So, this is my A/G version of that, and it would seem I have started early. _

_There will be all sorts of stuff here, mostly random ideas that won't leave me be but are not long-fic material, going from fluff to angst and everything in between. Most will be inspired by some - again, random - song, though they won't be actual songfics. _

_Anyway, this first one is on the (very?) angsty side, possibly due to the mouthful of meds I ingested._

_AU for 4x13, title taken from 'Heal My Wounds' by Poets of the Fall.** Warning for character death**. __Also, for the purposes of this one-shot, we are pretending that last minute, 'no mortal blade can kill a High Priestess' thing doesn't exist._

_That all said, proceed if you wish._

* * *

**The Fates Are Devious By Heart**

Guinevere let her sword clatter to the ground as her knees gave way under her. Her eyes burned with tears, lingering on the still form of her old friend. Morgana lay dead before her, her black dress growing sodden with the blood which poured from the wound Gwen had inflicted her. She could still scarcely believe it, that she had managed to counter her former mistress's skill with the sword, and run her own blade through the witch's heart.

Morgana Pendragon was dead, her beautiful eyes now vacant of life, as they stared lifelessly at the ceiling.

Gwen felt a sob build in her throat. "Oh, my old friend," she whispered. "You were always so troubled."

_Perhaps you shall find peace now_, she thought.

But of course, Morgana had managed to inflict a wound of her own.

Gwen's own clothes were growing heavy with blood, spreading from the deep gash Morgana had sliced across her belly.

She fought to stay conscious as her mind began racing. The battle seemed to be all but over and odds were she would encounter a friendly face before that of a foe if she went in search of help. Of course, this meant she needed to crawl through a few sets of corridors if she even hoped to find another soul.

She planted her palm on the ground firmly, using the little strength she had left to push herself to her feet. She immediately cried out in searing pain; every jolt, no matter how small, seemed to twist her entire body into a fire of agony.

She steeled herself against the pain she knew would come as she made to move again. Her hands scratched at the walls for support, as she stumbled away from Morgana's body.

* * *

"We must scour the castle and grounds," Arthur ordered, grunting in pain as he did so. "Search for the wounded, and the dead too. We must - "

"Yes, Arthur, we all know what to do," Merlin cut in, his brow creased in a frown of displeasure. "We've won the battle, but it will do us no good if the King dies because he is a stubborn prat."

Said King huffed. Truthfully, his broken ribs were grieving him more than ever, and he was fairly certain Gaius' fears of a punctured lung would soon prove true. It mattered not, though, because he had a duty to his people, and all those who had fought this battle with him.

Helios was dead and so were most of his men. Morgana still remained unaccounted for, but Arthur supposed she had fled after she realised her magic was gone.

Arthur had killed Helios himself, thus ensuring victory, but many of his own had still lost their lives for Camelot. For him. He could not let a few broken ribs deter him from honouring them the way they deserved.

He stumbled and had it not been for Merlin catching him under the arm, he probably would have crashed to the ground.

"You need to rest," his manservant insisted. "Gaius cannot tend to you now, and I can only do so much, which means you need to lie down and _stop being stubborn_."

He shook Merlin off, righting himself the best he could. "Many have died for me today, Merlin," he maintained – _stubbornly_, as it was. "I can't just return to my soft pillows, and forget them."

Merlin threw his hands in the air, subsequently using them to make a strangling motion and muttering something about donkeys' brains under his breath. Suddenly, he stopped at a corner, and Arthur nearly ran – or rather, ungraciously stumbled – into him.

"What now?" he demanded impatiently, but Merlin made no sound, and Arthur stepped to the side with a grunt, taking in the sight.

He stilled.

The small corridor was empty, save for his sister's corpse. She lay motionless on the cold stone, her eyes open but unseeing; she was dead.

A moment later, he voiced that same thought. "She's dead."

Merlin nodded numbly, before his shoulders tensed and his eyes turned to Arthur's. They shone with fear.

"Gwen went after her," was all he said.

Arthur frowned. "You mean to tell me _Guinevere_ killed Morgana?"

There were many things he associated with his former betrothed now, adultery being one of them, but never the skill to take down Morgana. Even without her powers, her agility with the sword rivalled…_had_ rivalled his own.

Merlin gulped. "That's her sword," he said, pointing to one of the two blades upon the ground. "She went after her, Arthur."

The King refused to let his growing sense of fear fester. "Well, she's not here now," he countered. "She must have joined the others."

Merlin didn't seem convinced. "I'll go look for her," he announced hastily, moving away with quick strides.

Arthur sighed as he watched him go, letting his eyes linger on his sister's still form. It saddened him to see her gone, no matter her crimes or her hatred. Her death would bring them peace, but it was a bittersweet victory. And if it truly was Guinevere who had dealt the fatal blow…well, he would need to reconsider her banishment. However cruel it sounded, she had done Camelot a great service by ridding them of Morgana; both honour and law dictated she needed to be rewarded.

If she could be found, of course.

He sighed again. Merlin's fear had made him jittery and unsettled; he thought it a foolish thing. Guinevere could not be harmed, much less…dead. It was just…not the way the world worked.

Still, he worried.

Grunting again, he used the walls as support every now and then, taking off in the direction opposite of the one Merlin had gone to.

With a little luck, he would find Guinevere soon enough and prove that Merlin was, once more, being a complete idiot.

* * *

Gwen crawled across the floor, through the side door of the throne room. Her legs had given out, and she had had to resort to pulling herself across the stone, leaving a trail of red in her wake.

She only managed to crawl to the centre before her arms too lost their strength. She lay on her side, her increasingly tired eyes locked on the lone throne above her.

She allowed her body to go limp as her temple touched the cold marble floor.

This was where she would meet her end, she realised. In the shadow of a mighty throne, which had cost so many lives and ruined so many others. It seemed an ugly thing now, after everything it had caused. Once, she would have considered it beautiful, for it would not have stood alone; another would have been added to its side, and it would have been hers.

Had she not been foolish, had she not committed adultery, she and Arthur would have sat there together.

But, as it was, the throne stood alone. Of course, she knew it would not stand alone forever; Arthur would marry, and his Queen would sit beside him.

The thought made her heart burn, though she knew she had no right to feel so. She had betrayed him, and he was hers no longer.

Still, it was quite fitting, she supposed. To die at the foot of the throne of Camelot. It served her right, the foolish girl who dreamt of impossible things and an impossible man. It almost mocked her, that grand, bejewelled chair, as if to remind her she was worthless by its splendour alone.

Just as that throne, she stood alone now, too. She had dreamt of everything and lost it all.

She had been banished, shunned, by her friends, her brother and the man she loved. The woman she once considered her sister had rammed her sword through her with glee, before meeting her own end. There was no one, nothing, she had left. A small, makeshift bed in a village on the border of a kingdom not her own. That was what she had now.

She had lost the favour of those she loved, so really, who would remember her now? Her mother and father were gone, as was her devoted Lancelot – even Morgana was gone, by her own hand. Not her brother, he wouldn't; not the sister who had brought him shame and broken the heart of his King. Not the Knights she had come to cherish, they would not sustain the memory of the adulteress who betrayed the man they had sworn allegiance to. Not the elderly physician who had so many others to worry about. Not the scrawny, big-eared boy with a silly grin; he would be sad, she knew, but he had many other friends to hold dear in his heart. Not the community of townspeople she had once belonged to. Certainly not Arthur; no, he had made it clear. She was to be erased from his memories.

Perhaps this was her penance, she thought. The price for her sin, the one Arthur had not wished to make her pay, but the heavens did. At least she had removed the threat that was Morgana before her end; a last token for her King, to give his kingdom peace.

She allowed her eyes to close.

She could not tell how much time had passed before she heard muffled thuds echo in her ear, as heavy footsteps hit the stone. The rattling of chainmail buzzed too, and she knew a Knight had found her.

"No, no, no," she heard the quiet, panicked mumble before a body dropped behind her, a familiar pair of hands reaching for her; one went to hold her head up from the floor while the other settled on her shoulder, turning her over gently. She found herself pressed against the cool metal of chainmail and armour.

"Guinevere," he called to her hastily, his voice barely above a whisper. Or perhaps she was already too weak to hear him properly.

Her eyes opened a fraction, her vision off-kilter. Everything was a blur but she could still see his chest rise in and fall in a sigh of relief.

She felt his arm beneath her head and his hand ghost over wound; he drew a sharp breath.

"Just stay awake," she heard him say. "You'll be alright."

She croaked faintly, coughed, then forced her mouth to form actual words. "There's no…point," she managed to whisper. "Look at…all the…all the blood. There's no…point."

His eyes went to the side, and the long trail of blood which drew a crooked line from the side door, and beyond to the hallway. Still, he shook his head.

"Don't be ridiculous," he reprimanded, shifting his own weight to slip both his hands under her body. He immediately grunted in pain as the movement pulled at his injured side, shutting his eyes against the ache.

He felt her hand come and rest on his chest feebly. "You'll hurt yourself," she voiced a reprimand of her own, and he felt irrationally angry. Mad woman, thinking of his stupid, useless, broken ribs when she was bleeding out before his very eyes.

He refused to acknowledge the truth of words, trying again. He fell back down, as the pain made him lose his breath. He felt the tears well in his eyes, and gritted his teeth against them.

This would not happen. It was not how things worked.

"We need h-help!" he shouted over his shoulder, his voice faltering. He tried again. "Someone! We need help!"

Her faint cough commanded his attention, and he brought his eyes back to her. Her own were beginning to flutter.

"No, Guinevere, look at me," he said with urgency, moving her slightly so that her cheek rested against his shoulder. His free hand rose to her other cheek, and he let his thumb smooth over her skin. "You must stay awake."

She didn't seem to heed his words much, murmuring, "Morgana…is dead. You…you can have peace now."

He felt as though his own words would choke him. "We'll have peace _together_. Thanks to you."

Her lips drew a slow smile. "At least I've done…s-something right," she mumbled her reply.

"Don't say that," he chastised, shaking his head adamantly. He looked over his shoulder again. Why wasn't anyone coming to help?

He made to shout out again, but her quiet, tired voice stopped him.

"You'll be a…great King. I know you will."

"Stop saying such things," he demanded, though his voice wavered like that of a scared little boy.

"It'll be alright," she went on, ignoring him, "Don't…don't worry about me. I have what I…deserve."

"No, that's not true, Guinevere - "

"And you'll be…fine, you don't…need me."

"Stop - "

"You'll find a beautiful p-princess, and…she will make you h-happy, and…"

"Shut up, Guinevere," he bit out, his teeth gritting as he shut his eyes against the tears once more.

She did quiet, and her hand slowly rose, trembling from the effort as it came to rest on his cheek.

"You have…a great kingdom, and peace," she told him quietly and, though it made him sick to hear it, almost contently. "It's a…small price to pay," she whispered. "Just a serving girl."

The sob choked him, and he caught her hand, clasping it in his own. He shook his head in protest to her words, letting go of her hand for a moment, frantically reaching beneath his chainmail to tug at the keepsake which hung around his neck. He yanked and the thin cord broke, allowing him to pull it out from beneath his armour.

He shifted, ignoring the pain as he brought his arm around her fully, and her head came to rest at the crook of his neck.

His hands clasped together above her chest as he tugged at the leather strap, releasing the ring from its contraption after a few sharp tugs.

He reached for her hand again. "See?" he said desperately, one hand holding her limp one while the other slipped the ring onto her finger with shaky movements. "It's yours. You will be Queen, you're not just a serving girl, you will be Queen. See? Guinevere?"

It suddenly struck him that he could not feel her breath on the skin of his neck. It struck him that he had not felt it from the moment her head had come to rest there.

"No."

He shook her.

"No, Guinevere, wake up."

Her head lolled against his shoulder, her eyes closed.

"Wake up, Guinevere!"

This could not be. The world did not work this way.

"Come on, wake up!"

His fingers curled in her hair, tugged even, but she remained still in his arms. The tears came down his cheeks and his voice grew louder, but there was nothing he could do to make her hear his words now.

"Please, Guinevere, you can't…"

With a strangled cry, he lowered his forehead to hers, finding her skin cold against his own. He brought her closer, his hand fisting in her hair, as his tears came to wet her own cheeks. It made no difference.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please…"

He took it back. He took it all back. Every angered word he had spoken to her, he took it back. The way he had thrown her into the dungeons, the way he had made her cry, the way he had grabbed her by the arms, the way he had grieved her kind heart with his spiteful tongue, he took it back, all of it. He always said stupid things, did stupid things, she knew that.

He didn't care for betrayals or laws, he just wanted her. She was meant to be his Queen, only her.

"You have to wake, please, I'm sorry, my love…"

And every word he wished he had spoken, he said it now. He desperately needed to make her hear. Telling her to shut up could not be the last thing she had ever heard him say to her. There was so much more she needed to hear, to know. He had never loved another, and that remained true, no matter what. He loved her so much. And he would prove it to her. If she would just wake, he would prove it to her.

"My Guinevere…"

He only needed one more chance. He would make it right then, he just needed that one chance.

But the fates were not kind, and there were only so many second chances they were willing to grant. Or was it a third chance? A fourth? How easily he had squandered them. And now he would not be given another.

Sobs wracked his body and his chest heaved, making him feel as though his broken ribs sliced through his very insides. He hoped they would. He prayed for it. He prayed it would kill him, too.

He knew it wouldn't, though. Because the fates were not kind.

His burning, red-rimmed eyes rose for a moment. The fates were devious. For they had granted him a second chance; a second chance to rule as King, instead of one to be with his love. But they had to have known, that he would have traded the first for the second without a moment's thought.

So very devious.

The throne seemed to split into two for a moment, and he saw himself standing there, hand-in-hand with his Queen. He blinked, and the throne stood alone. It seemed no greater than a common stool now. It was worthless.

His eyes fell back down.

He clutched at her tightly, burying his face in her hair as he cried harder.

It was how the King was found later, clinging to the body of the serving girl who would have been his Queen.

Many tried, no one more so than the young warlock, to rise King Arthur to greatness. They should have known though, that a King could not be great without his heart.


	2. The Heart Is Hard To Translate

_A/N: Yours truly is back in business. I will admit, not particularly productive or imaginative business, but business nonetheless. And I now present you with the second random one-shot in this series. _

_Short summary: In which Arthur has some trouble with those pesky things people liked to call 'feelings'._

_Title taken from 'All This and Heaven Too' by Florence + the Machine._

* * *

**The Heart Is Hard To Translate**

Arthur Pendragon had a problem.

Not any sort of threat or anything such – no beasts to slay, no armies to fend off, no manservants to clobber around the head – but a problem nevertheless. It was not one he was used to having, either. And that was made it so very maddening. This problem was, in fact, a matter of the heart. It had, God help him, to do with _feelings_.

Now, Arthur knew the basic concept of feelings and he knew the big categories. There was joy, there was sadness, there was anger, there was hatred, there were a whole lot of others, and then there was _love_. That last one caused him a problem.

He did love people, of course. He loved his father, he loved his late mother even though he had never known her, he loved his Knights as brothers, he loved the citizens of Camelot as a Prince should, he loved Morgana as his sister, he loved Gaius as a second father and he loved – dare he even think it? – Merlin as a friend. But there was a different sort of love he knew very little – meaning, absolutely nothing – about; the kind of love all the songs seemed to be about.

He'd never known such love. He'd fancied a couple of girls over years, certainly, but had never found them…_interesting_ enough, he supposed. Really, the only girl he'd ever had any real interest in chatting to was Morgana, and that was mostly because she liked to talk about swordplay and tournaments just as much as he did.

And then, along came Guinevere.

Well, she had always _been _there, really, he just hadn't quite noticed her wandering about. Well, he knew she was _there_, obviously, but he hadn't _properly_ noticed her. But once he did…well.

A blacksmith's daughter, she knew _everything_ about swords and weaponry. And shields! And armour! She knew _everything_, so much more than Morgana ever could. And she would always speak of her knowledge when asked about it. That alone made Arthur certain a conversation with her could _never_ become dull.

And she was wise! She just knew things – _saw_ things. Things he could not spot for the life of him. And she was kind, and hardworking. And she had a beautiful smile – she was beautiful all over, really. And she was strong, and brave, and opinionated, and…well, she was _Guinevere_.

So, one day while staying at her home, he'd kissed her. And now he had a problem.

It had been a few months since that day, but he still could not say what it was exactly that he felt for her. She was a commoner, so love should be an impossible feeling for him to have by default, but things were not quite so simple. He didn't know if the infatuation would pass or if it would grow strong enough to drive him to madness, or what actual love was even supposed to feel like.

He began to pace the length of his chambers.

He needed to sort his feelings – whatever they were – out and think them through. Yet, for all his efforts, all he could think about were Guinevere's eyes. Guinevere's lips. Guinevere's voice. Guinevere's dress – and, as he was the image of chivalry and nobility, he _did not_ think of what was beneath that dress. Guinevere's hair. Guinevere's hands. Guinevere's smile. Guinevere. Guinevere. Guinevere.

"Sire?"

And just like that, she stood in the middle of his chambers.

"The doors were open," she began to explain her sudden presence immediately, "and you seemed out of sorts. Is everything alright, my lord?"

No, everything was not alright. Still, he could not find any proper way to even begin to present his musings to her, and she had not given him time to prepare himself for her presence either, so he let his tongue get the better of his brain. "I think I love…someone."

She blinked. "You _think_ you love someone, sire?" she reiterated slowly, frowning.

_Oh, good grief_, he thought. Why had he opened his mouth? But apparently, there was no way to stop the flood now. "Well, I'm not sure," he said quickly. "I mean, how would I know anyway? I think do, but…" He sighed. "Could you tell me?"

She seemed very uncertain. "I…don't know your heart quite so well, my lord."

"But you know what being in love's like, right?" he asked. "You…_know_ things."

She probably thought he'd gone mad, if the look she was giving him was any indication. At length, and after a few false starts, she obliged. "Well, I…" She wrung her hands in front of her a little nervously, then took a deep breath. "I believe that, when you love someone, they are always on your mind," she said. "Even when you are busy with other things, even when you have not seen them in days, a part of you always thinks of them."

She averted her gaze to the ground. "And you worry about them all the time, especially when you cannot see them, because you could not bear any harm coming to them." She bit her lip. "Just seeing them pass by brightens your day."

With a deep breath, she summoned the courage to lift her eyes to his once more. She squared her shoulders, held her chin a little higher. "You wish them nothing but happiness, and you dream that it is you they will choose to share it with," she spoke again, softly this time. "Even when you know your dreams are foolish, you still will not let them go. Because you cannot help your heart."

Her words drew to an end and, for a long moment, there was silence between them.

Finally, Arthur nodded, more to himself than to her. Well, that settled it then, he thought. He loved Guinevere.

He thought of her all the time – to distraction even, on many days. When there were no monsters to fight or great dangers to the kingdom to be repelled, he thought of nothing else but her.

He worried when he could not see her by Morgana's side, or when he did not lay eyes on her for days on end. And he knew he would not have borne it, if any harm had come to her. He knew it from the moment she had been kidnapped instead of the King's ward. He didn't know what he would have done, had Hengist harmed her. Probably either burn the warlord and all of his men to ashes or curl in a corner and wail in misery for the rest of his days. Or both. He couldn't really say.

She did brighten his days, even if he only could a passing glimpse of her. He had no words to express it – that was for the poets to put into songs – but the sentiment upon simply looking on her was a powerful one.

He wished for her to be happy, too. So happy that she spent every hour of every day smiling, and he wished to be the one to put such smiles on her lips. He dreamt of it, even though every tradition and norm should not allow for such dreams. His heart didn't seem to care one bit for those, only for _her_.

Yes. He loved Guinevere.

And, judging by her heartfelt words, she loved someone, too. He liked to think it was him but, of course, he was not the only one who desired her affections, or whose affections she had been known to return.

_Only one way to know_, he thought. "It sounds as if you speak from experience," he observed.

Slowly, her lips curved into a sad little smile. "You know I do," she said simply.

He bit his lip. It was not quite the answer he was looking for. He didn't really know how to ask for a more precise one, either.

Guinevere seemed to understand exactly what was going through his mind, going by the knowing little quirk in her eyebrow, but she still said nothing on the matter, gave him no further answer. Instead, she queried, "Were my thoughts of any help, my lord?"

He wished she would stop calling him by titles when they were alone. Sighing, he gave her a tired smile. "Quite."

"I'm glad I could help, then. Is there anything else you need?"

_You_, he thought impulsively. Of course, he could not say it aloud. Well, he _could_ but it would break this little routine they had set during the past couple of months. When it came to their hearts' desires in regards to each other, they voiced them in indirect words and riddles, more for Guinevere's sake than his. "No, but thank you," he said.

She curtsied. "Good day, my lord."

Arthur watched her go, sighing as she disappeared out of sight. He still had many things to learn and understand – this love business being one of them – and decisions he had to make, but there was one thing he was absolutely certain of. When he was King, things would be different.


	3. If I Ever Give You Up (Part I)

_A/N: Hello again, my lovelies. Now, when it comes to this particular, random A/G snippet, it's actually going to be a two-shot. Because, you know, too long to be a one-shot, too short to be an actual story. And I did draw themes from a song for it, so it does fit this series. It is a member of the 4x11 AUs club, which I seem to have a fixation with writing - for those who have read 'The Serving Girl Who Became Queen', remember how that monstrously long puppy started out? Yeah, I do love playing with elements from 4x11. _

_Anyway, I do hope you enjoy this one. _

_Short summary: He would not give her up this time. _

_Features appearances from Morgana, Mithian and Helios, among others._

_Title taken from 'Future Starts Slow' by The Kills._

* * *

**If I Ever Give You Up**

**(1/2)**

He had the worst luck in the five kingdoms.

Really, it was the only plausible explanation for always getting into these situations. And honestly, how else was one to explain that he, the King of Camelot, along with two men, had been separated from the rest of his hunting party – to be fair, it had been his own stupid idea to go after that annoyingly quick boar while the rest of the party remained on course – and had then come upon a cluster of bandits. Greatest warriors in the kingdoms or not, not even Knights of Camelot could really withstand attack when they were outnumbered five to one.

The bandits – well, at least Arthur presumed they were bandits – were dead now, and so were his own men. And he…well, he was bleeding from four different places by his account. One of the bandits, and Arthur could swear the man had been part-giant by the size of him, had managed to yank off pieces of his armour with his bare hands, leaving the King in little more than tattered chainmail. Grunting and panting in the midst of dead men around him, Arthur managed to rid himself of the chainmail as well, and was quite certain he had broken at least one rib in the process.

He looked down at himself. His shirt was bloodied and ripped, and his trousers were in a rather sorry state as well. _All because of a stupid boar_, he thought sullenly.

He groaned as he picked up a sword, noticing his ring had been torn from his hand as well in the fight. He really could not bother to look for it. If he could just find the rest of his party before bleeding to death, all would work out just fine.

Moving – or rather, limping – forward, he set to retrace the path. But of course, his bad luck followed him. Perhaps it was because of the blood loss or the thick cover of leaves upon the ground; whatever the cause, the fact remained that he did not spot that branch sticking out from the soil. A branch that, as it happened, was only a short distance away from a rather imposing ditch.

Arthur tripped, yelped, lost the grip on his sword, before rolling down the ditch and hitting his head on a rock when he reached the bottom.

When he awoke, it was to two pairs of hands dragging his limp form along.

"He's half-dead already, by the looks of him," he heard a rumbling voice observe on his right. "We should have just let the crows have him."

"Aye, but he looks strong," another voice remarked, the one on his left. "If he lives, he could prove valuable."

"Let's hope Helios thinks so, too."

"Well, if he doesn't, the crows are never far."

_Helios_, Arthur thought, his mind hazy. As in, Helios the warlord?

If he had the strength, he would have groaned.

Worst luck in the five kingdoms.

* * *

Helios bristled when one of his men interrupted his meal with the lovely Guinevere. She was a true beauty, and he very much enjoyed her. He had also asked not to be disturbed.

"What is it?" he snapped.

"Arundel and Wymer found a man in the woods. They say he could prove useful. If he lives, that is. Someone poked him full of holes, they did."

Helios' expression darkened further. "What use would I have of a man as good as dead?"

"They say he's very strong, m'lord," his man said. "Stronger than most men you have now. If he doesn't die, he could make good work of a sword."

Helios clucked his tongue, then sighed. While he didn't wish to waste time on this, it was true he did need new recruits. "Fine," he relented. "Bring him here."

His man bowed then scurried away. Helios turned to Guinevere, whose brow was graced by a small frown. "I am sorry we have been interrupted," he told her. "This will take but a minute."

She bit her lip before smiling a little uncertainly. "If this man is truly as injured as they claim," she said, "then perhaps I can help. We had no physician in our village, so we were taught how to treat our own wounds. The women especially."

He smiled too. "Beautiful and knowledgeable," he observed. "To keep you in the pigsty was a folly."

"One that you have righted, it seems. I do owe you my life, Helios, and perhaps I can repay you with more than just pleasurable company."

Helios chuckled lowly, nodding. This beauty who called herself a no one held more wit than many nobles he'd met – or rather killed, really. The two were not mutually exclusive, though.

He was denied the chance to comment further, as some rustling announced his men's approach. He rose to his feet and, a moment later, so did Guinevere. Three shapes appeared in sight, with Arundel and Wymer dragging an only semi-conscious man between them. They unceremoniously let the latter drop to his knees after crossing the threshold. Helios could see the man was in a bad way, with his clothes torn and smeared in blood, and his blonde hair matted with mud. He did seem strongly built, as was claimed, and Helios could recognise his potential as a fighter.

Before he could speak, though, Guinevere gasped. Turning his gaze to the side, Helios noticed her eyes had widened and her jaw had dropped. He frowned, querying, "Is something the matter, Guinevere?"

At the mention of her name, the man on the ground lifted his head at impressive speed for someone in his state, his blue eyes unfocused for a moment. They narrowed then widened, and he whispered, "Guinevere?"

His voice seemed both weak and incredulous, but it was quite obvious the two knew each other. Guinevere struggled to speak for a moment, too surprised to form words. Finally, she found her voice. "Leon!" she exclaimed and nearly ran forward, dropping to her own knees in front of the man.

Arthur had no time to react in any way before her arms were around him, and her mouth next to his ear. "Play along," she instructed, so lowly and inconspicuously that he was certain to be the only one who heard her. She then let out a much more audible chuckle of relief, pulling away. "I thought you were dead," she said, obviously running with some fabricated story of her choosing. "I thought I was the only one to escape! I am so happy to see you!"

He could only produce a faint croak, still only half-certain she was truly there. Odds were she was only his muddled mind's fabrication. Perhaps if he willed it strongly enough, she would kiss him. Or everything that had happened between them months ago would be erased.

He muttered weakly once more, forming a sound that resembled a faint echo of her name.

"You know this man?" the one Arthur could only presume to be Helios asked, and Guinevere looked over her shoulder, nodding enthusiastically.

"He lived in my village," she said, and the lie, along with the happiness and relief in her tone, sounded very genuine. "We grew up together! I…I can't believe it." She turned back to him, grinning widely. "I can't tell you how happy I am to see you alive."

"Well, he doesn't look like he will be alive for much longer," Helios commented. "You wish to tend to his wounds?"

Again, Guinevere nodded with purpose. "Yes. If you could help me lie him down and give me a few supplies, I will see to everything."

Arthur noticed she had a pleading look in her eyes, and a few tears too to complete the act. And, oddly or not, Helios seemed mollified.

Well, Guinevere certainly seemed to be able to lie and deceive with the best of them. As she had demonstrated mere months ago, of course.

"Give her whatever she needs," Helios gave the order to his men, who bowed in obedience. They picked Arthur – or, as he was known to them, Leon – up from the ground, dragging him in the direction of a separate space within the large maze of caves.

Guinevere lingered behind a moment, as her hands came to rest above her rapidly beating heart.

"Guinevere," Helios called to her, prompting her to turn around. "If your friend does not survive," he said, "I give you my word that he will receive a proper burial. I hope he lives, though. You have lost too many dear to you already."

She plastered a look of gratitude on her face. "Thank you," she told him before placing a small kiss on his cheek. It served its purpose very well, as Helios smiled at her before telling her to see to her friend's wounds.

Arthur was laid upon an improvised cot on the cave's stone floor. His consciousness was slipping away quickly, but he fought the darkness, if only to have a few words with Guinevere. He needed to know what she was doing in this place, and especially what she was doing in the company of a man like Helios.

There was noise around him, as supplies were set out and candles and torches lit, all under the soft command of Guinevere's voice. Finally, Helios' men left them, and Guinevere knelt at his side, a dagger in her hand.

She lifted the hem of his shirt, carefully making a small cut with the blade. She then laid it aside, fisted the edges of the shirt in both hands, and pulled with force. The already ruined shirt ripped from bottom to collar, exposing Arthur's chest to her eyes.

A deep frown marred her brow as she looked over his injuries. "I need to clean these first," she spoke in an oddly detached voice, "and wash away the blood."

His eyes followed her movements, from where she tore fresh linen into smaller scraps to where she picked up a jug of clean water.

She tried to smile, but failed in her attempt quite miserably. He supposed he did not put her at ease either, seeing as he kept staring at her without saying much.

After a moment, she took a deep breath and set the jug back down. She bundled one of the scraps of cloth, dipped it into the water, then brought it to his skin. He jerked at the touch, and grumbled at the pain the movement caused.

"Try not to move too much," she instructed softly.

He grunted and coughed. He had questions. So many questions. With a great deal of effort, he tried to voice at least one. "Why…why are you – "

"I will tell you everything you wish to know later," she interrupted gently. "I have to tend to your injuries first."

Though he knew he was being stubborn, he still shook his head again.

She sighed but gave him no answer. He supposed he couldn't quite make her comply either, seeing as he was pretty much at her sole mercy.

She moved the soaked cloth over his wounds, rinsing away the blood. The pressure was painful against his sores, and he gritted his teeth to keep himself from crying out. She seemed to notice his struggle and lifted one hand to his brow, tracing a soft path over his cheek and to his jaw.

She only seemed to become aware of her actions after a few moments, and she quickly pulled her hand away.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, hastily averting her eyes and busying her hands.

_What for?_ He thought sourly. For betraying him, for breaking his heart, for treating him with affection when she had no right to it, or for trying to save his life? Really, the possibilities were endless.

After using a second cloth to wash the blood away completely, she paused to study the wounds more closely.

"These are not very deep," she concluded at length, giving a small sigh of relief. "But you have lost quite a lot of blood. You'll need to rest."

She frowned at the various bruises on his stomach. A large one on his side seemed to give her particular reason for worry. "I need to see if any of your ribs are broken," she informed him. She brought her hand to his side, applying steady pressure along the line of every rib.

The touch, along with the pain it caused, sharpened his mind. He observed her as she worked methodically. It was still hard to believe, that he had been brought right to her awaiting hands. He had thought never to see her again, and here she was now, tending to the wounds he'd had – granted, rather stupidly – inflicted on him. He decided there and then he would _not_ tell her how exactly he had crossed the outlaws' path; telling Guinevere about how he had nearly gotten himself killed because he had chased after a boar was not an option.

Not that he should care what Guinevere thought of him anymore.

"Your ribs aren't broken. Bruised, but not broken" she announced after a moment, beginning to remove her hand. He raised his own – it was a miracle he had the strength for it, really – and caught her wrist before she moved her hand out of reach.

Startled, she raised her eyes to his.

He had questions, and he wanted answers. He _needed_ answers. "Why…are you…here?" he succeeded in querying, croaking and panting all the while.

She sighed again. "I said I would tell you everything you wish to know," she reminded him. "But I need to tend to you first."

He refused to budge. "Just…tell me."

With yet another sigh, she seemed to relent. "It's a long story," she said. "I might as well begin preparing the sap while I tell you everything."

At his frown of confusion, she added, "It's pine sap, to seal your wounds." She smiled slightly. "Gaius taught me how to do it, don't worry."

Releasing his hold on her wrist, he let her get on with it. A large candle burned upon the ground and Guinevere took one of the bowls, a smaller one, in her hands, placing it above the candle's flame. "It's the sap," she told him, nodding towards the bowl's contents. "They use it quite a lot here, I've noticed, to seal cracks along the rocks. It will stop the bleeding and help your wounds heal, too."

She turned her eyes to his, finding them to be nothing but expectant and demanding. She sighed. The King wanted his answers.

Turning her gaze back toward the melting sap above the candle, she began with her story. "I'd settled in a village, not all that far from where we are now," she said. "But Helios raided it a couple of days past; he's looking for recruits, so he took the fittest men with him, and killed everyone else." She swallowed. "Everyone but me."

The sap had melted to a viscous form, rather than its previous hardened one, and she set the bowl on the ground. "To…keep him company, I suppose would be the gentlemen's way to put it. He brought me here, gave me clean clothes."

She took hold of the bowl and scooted closer to his side. "You interrupted our dinner, actually."

With her eyes firmly on the improvised remedy in her hands, Arthur had no way to read her expression, and her profile was carefully impassive, giving nothing away. He felt his insides slowly tie into painful knots of dread. "Did…did he…"

"He did nothing," she assured. "I think Helios is the kind of man who takes pleasure in seducing a woman, rather than just taking her." _Until his patience runs out, of course_, she thought but refrained herself from voicing the addition aloud.

Arthur was silent for a long moment, and cursed himself for the words which left his mouth when he did speak. "And how…are his efforts paying off…so far?"

She did meet his eyes then, and they flashed with hurt. She averted her gaze again almost immediately. "I understand why you would think low of me," she said quietly, and left it at that. Arthur immediately felt like the scum of the Earth. Here she was, risking her own life by lying about his identity and tending to his wounds with care, and all he could do was insult her and imply she would lie with any man who crossed her path. And she didn't even fight him on it.

Focused solely on her task, Guinevere gently but efficiently applied the mixture to his injuries. The sap prickled and stung his flesh, but it didn't hurt all that much. He was too busy feeling guilty for insulting her to really notice the pain, anyway.

Which was ridiculous, really, because she had betrayed him. With another man. On the bloody eve of their wedding! Still, he felt the overwhelming urge to apologise. "Guinevere, I…"

"It's alright," she cut off his attempted apology. One of her shoulders rose and fell in a small shrug. "I have what I deserve."

She moved away then, having finished with applying the sap. Her words only served to make Arthur feel worse. A part of him, one that spoke with the voice of his father, did want to agree. She did have what she deserved – actually, the law dictated _death_ was what adulteresses in royal families deserved. He had loved her too much to watch her die, especially by his own hand.

But then, even with his merciful sentence, she had nearly died too. The only reason she yet lived was her beauty, really. The other women, even little girls, of the village she had stayed in were all dead, and she had been spared only because some good-for-nothing warlord thought it would be pleasurable to have her share his bed.

It made Arthur sick. No woman deserved to be treated such, certainly not Guinevere.

He rather felt like crying over it all.

She was tearing linen again, into long scraps this time, to make bandages. "You need to sit up now," she instructed kindly once she was finished. He tried to raise himself on his elbows and failed with a grunt and a string of muttered curses. A moment later, he felt her hands on his shoulders. She slipped one to the back on his head, the other underneath his arm and to his back, and slowly pulled him upward. He tried to put some of his own strength into it but it helped matters very little; he had to admit, she had quite the strength, too.

She brought him to a sitting position, pulled her hands away very slowly to see if he'd fall right back down, and smiled slightly when he didn't. "Can you lift your arms?" she asked next and when he managed to do it, nodded her approval. She took hold of the bandages, and leaned in to wrap them around his middle.

She was very close to him now, with their faces nearly touching. He could smell her hair and, if he leaned in just a little bit more, he would be able to bury his nose in it. And though her head was bowed a fraction and her eyes on the bandages she was holding, he could still reach her skin with his lips if he wanted to. From here, with her so close, he could kiss her forehead, her temple, her cheek. And, if she tilted her head the slightest bit, his lips could find hers.

He missed her. He missed her so terribly.

_What am I doing?_ He thought. Making arrangements to marry a Princess he didn't even know when all he could think about was Guinevere. _Stupid idiot._

"It's done," Guinevere said as she finished tying the knot on his bandages. She straightened, pulling away slightly, and smiled with satisfaction at her handiwork. He, on the other hand, was entirely distracted by the ring he'd just noticed hanging around her neck. He had spotted a thin cord around her throat earlier, but the pendant it held had been turned to the back of her neck, and there hidden by her long hair. It had tumbled back to her front now, and he recognised it immediately.

It took her a moment to notice his stunned expression and she gulped when she realised what he was staring at. "It holds many fond memories," she whispered, making him lift his eyes from the ring and to her own. He had never seen such resigned sadness in anyone, as he did in her now. She shrugged helplessly. "Sometimes, those memories are the only thing that keeps me warm at night."

She seemed to regret the words as soon as they had left her mouth and she gulped again, before lowering her eyes to the ground.

He didn't quite understand her wish to hold on to these memories. God knew he had tried his hardest to forget. He had a Princess waiting to marry him in Camelot, and he had forbidden everyone to ever speak Guinevere's name again. He desperately wanted to forget and yet, Guinevere clung to their past; he didn't understand. "Why would you want to keep those memories?"

She lifted her head again and now seemed almost confused. "I don't want to forget you, Arthur," she said quietly, and made it sound like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Like I said, I have many fond memories of you – of us. I don't want to forget those times."

_But doesn't it hurt?_ He wondered. It certainly hurt _him_ to remember _her_; just hearing her name being spoken was too painful to bear, and so he had ordered the entire court to never utter it again. All the memories they shared, they were once beautiful, but her betrayal had tainted them, and turned them painful. How could she bear to think of them all the time? How had it not broken her down, all that pain of reminiscing the past? Because, she didn't seem broken in the slightest; she seemed as she always was. Resourceful, composed, kind – so very, very kind.

It took strength, he supposed, to bear it all without breaking. Strength he did not possess.

Right now, Guinevere was stronger than him in every possible way, and he didn't quite know what to make of that.

As he didn't speak for a long time, Guinevere took it upon herself to break the silence and effectively change the subject, too. "I've had them prepare you a change of clothes," she said, rising to her feet. She gathered a bundle of clothing from the ground; a pair of trousers and a shirt. She bit her lip. "I can help you put them on…"

_No chance in hell_, he thought. He may be wounded, just about ready to collapse and stay unconscious for the next century, but he would be damned if he needed someone to help him put bloody trousers on. Alright, strictly speaking, Merlin did that on a near daily basis, but this was entirely different. He would not have Guinevere dress him like he was some sort of child. He had his pride.

"I'll manage," he stated and, though she obviously didn't quite believe him, Guinevere tossed him the clothing then faced away to give him some privacy.

He grunted, cursed, rolled all over the ground and sweated a river but he did manage to slip the clean, dry pair of trousers on. He lay on the cold stone afterward, as he had rolled away from the blankets, panting in exhaustion.

Guinevere turned back to face him and he was certain he saw her trying to contain a smile. She was laughing at him. Brilliant.

"Will you at least let me help you with the shirt?" she asked and he gave a weak grunt of consent. He would probably not survive trying to put the shirt on, too.

Once she had made sure he hadn't disrupted the bandages too much with his endeavour of getting partially clothed, Guinevere got him into the shirt. Sighing, she said, "Helios will want to speak with you, but I'll tell him you're resting and have him come to you later."

He shook his head. He would not let her spend another moment alone with that warlord. "I can speak to him now."

She raised an eyebrow. "You can barely see straight," she pointed out. "You must rest, if only for a few hours."

"The sooner we get out of here, the better," he countered. "Just take me to that piece of horse dung now, and I'll see how best to escape from this place."

The eloquent way in which he had described Helios made her smile for a moment, but she grew concerned again almost immediately. "Fine, but please, don't do anything…too bold."

"Meaning what?"

She sighed. "Don't be rash. I never planned to stay here any longer than necessary, but I had to bide my time. You must too."

_Yeah_, he thought. _Same old Guinevere._

"Helios thinks you're just another commoner," she went on, "so don't get too…_arrogant_, either."

He gasped in indignation, but she proceeded before he could vocalise his protest. "What I mean is, don't start boasting about your skills with the sword, and don't let him see how much you know of warfare. He mustn't know you've been trained to fight since you were a child."

Her arguments were all sound, so he had to nod his compliance. Satisfied, she helped him get to his feet. He stumbled about ungraciously but she managed to right him in the end. He still mostly let her support his weight, though.

As they began walking, she asked, "What happened to your ring?"

"I lost it," he grumbled.

She chuckled. "Well, under the circumstances, that's actually a good thing. Oh, and don't forget, your name's Leon now."

Well, at least she hadn't thought to call him _Lancelot_. Life was all about the little things, he supposed.

* * *

"So, Leon," Helios began as they all sat in the improvised dinning chambers, "Guinevere tells me you grew up together."

Arthur fidgeted upon the ground, uncomfortable from both the position he was sitting in and the man who sat opposite him. He, King Arthur of Camelot, was pretending to be pledging his sword to a warlord…how in hell had _that_ happened?

"Indeed," he responded, doing his best not to glare at Helios and expose his true intentions. He had to admit, Guinevere was so much better at this than he was; she had a kind smile on her face the entire time, and it seemed to do wonders when it came to charming Helios.

The warlord studied him carefully. "How did you get those injuries?"

"I was wandering through the land, after our village was attacked," Arthur lied. "I was lost, really. I came upon some men, and they were looking for a fight. So, here I am."

"Hmm. Well, these lands are known for dangerous men. They weren't my men, those who fought you, I can tell you that much; my orders are to look for possible recruits, not kill them."

Arthur nodded politely, and it took him every ounce of willpower to do so. "And where exactly are we? Guinevere didn't get the chance to tell me."

Helios sent a smile in Guinevere's direction, and it made Arthur's heart burn with anger. "Odin's lands," the warlord replied after a moment. "Only a couple of miles from Camelot's border."

Arthur kept his expression neutral, but his mind raced. _Odin's lands?_ He thought. _Brilliant. Out of two men who'd love nothing more than to kill me, I'm in one's kingdom, and trying to charm the other. Worst bloody luck in the five bloody kingdoms. _

Then, as he thought Helios' words over further, something gave him pause. He said he'd been looking for recruits, and he did make a point of noting they were close to Camelot. "These recruits you're looking for," he began slowly, "I assume you need them for something to do with Camelot, then?"

Helios raised an eyebrow, then smirked. "I can see why Guinevere would have you as a friend, Leon. You're almost as clever as she is."

Arthur felt like laughing at the mere suggestion. "Not nearly," he mumbled. If he were half as clever as Guinevere, he would not have made most of the mistakes he had.

"I did say _almost_," Helios pointed out. "I meant to be polite for her sake."

_Oh, a witty warlord. Splendid_.

"My ears are not quite so sensitive, my lord," Guinevere said.

_And a flirty former maidservant. Good Lord. _

Helios positively _grinned_ at her words. Honestly, this was just getting ridiculous.

"Another thing to make you remarkable, then," the warlord told Guinevere. "I have really never met your like, Guinevere."

_Oh, for God's sake!_

"About your recruits and Camelot," Arthur interrupted quite impatiently. He was quite certain he felt Guinevere cringe at his tone from where she sat beside him.

Helios raised an eyebrow, but didn't remark on the impoliteness. "All in due time, Leon," he said flatly. "There are plans that must yet be made."

Arthur meant to, rather foolishly, press further but was kept from getting himself killed by one of Helios' men appearing at the entrance. "M'lord," the man said, "the Lady Morgana is here to see you."

Guinevere's eyes widened while Arthur's jaw promptly dropped. They exchanged bewildered looks as Helios told his man to send Morgana in. He then rose to his feet to welcome her.

Guinevere raised her eyebrows at Arthur, silently telling him to let her handle this. "My lord," she called to Helios, "if you are receiving someone, we should leave you to it."

He waved his hand casually. "There's no need. This will take but a moment."

To her credit, Guinevere showed no signs of panic whatsoever. "From what I know of ladies, they prefer private audiences. And besides, Leon does need to rest. I'll go help lie down, and I can come back to meet the lady if you wish me to."

Again, Helios rewarded her with a smile, while Arthur frowned. Really, how did she manage to make excuses sound like solid, logical arguments? And why had no one ever taught _him_ how to do that?

The warlord nodded his consent and Guinevere rose to her feet, pulling Arthur along. They began walking away as quickly as they could, without making it look as if they were running. It was quite the feat.

Guinevere led the way to a narrow tunnel connecting two large rooms in the caves, away from the entrance Morgana would come through. She and Arthur moved along the tunnel just far enough to be out of sight, but they could still listen in on the conversation.

After some silence, a voice reached them.

"You have company."

Arthur's blood boiled with rage at the sound. His dear sister had come.

"You never change, Helios."

"Do you have the plans?"

"Not yet," Morgana said, sounding rather displeased. Arthur frowned; what plans?

"That was our agreement, Morgana," Helios raised his voice. "Without them, any attack on Camelot would be suicidal."

So, Helios did plan to move on Camelot. With Morgana's help, of course. _Good to know_, Arthur thought.

"And I hear your forces are not yet up to strength," the witch countered.

"Preparations are nearly complete," Helios said. "I have gathered forces many times over the years, Morgana, I know how it is done. Finding the men is the least of our problems. We need those plans."

"We will have them," Morgana assured.

"We better, because Camelot's army is no small foe. And besides, _I_ hear the King is about to make a new alliance."

Morgana chuckled. "Please, Nemeth's army is pitiful. They are wealthy from the trade they make, but their soldiers are no better than a mob of unskilled peasants. Why do you think Rodor is so eager to marry his daughter to my dear brother?"

Arthur stiffened from head to toe. Guinevere stood in front of him, with her back to his chest, so he could not see her face, but he did watch her shoulders shake in a small, silent gasp.

"Your dear brother has a certain reputation of getting engaged, then sending his bride away," Helios commented with derision, obviously amused. Morgana seemed to share the sentiment, for she chuckled. "You would have liked the last one," she said, her tone growing bitter as she added, "She was a commoner."

"You sound like you hate her," Helios observed.

"She tried to take my crown. A simple serving girl, and she thought I would let her sit on my throne. I got rid of her."

Arthur's frown deepened. What in hell did _that_ mean?

He heard Guinevere's sharp intake of breath and stuttering exhale; she seemed to have understood Morgana's meaning better than he had.

"As I assume you will get rid of this new bride," Helios said.

"I will put her head on a spike right next to my brother's."

Helios seemed to find good humour in her words and chucked, but turned serious again after a moment. "You will only get the chance if we have the plans."

"I will get you the plans for the siege tunnels, Helios," Morgana bit out impatiently. "My source can be relied upon. He will get them for me."

"Alright. Let us drink to future victories, then."

Some clanking could be heard as Helios poured them both some wine. Then, Morgana queried, "So, who is it that keeps you company now?"

Guinevere spun around quickly, and Arthur caught the tears in her eyes. He wanted to say something, _anything_, but could not make the words leave his mouth. She didn't give him time to gather his thoughts, either.

"We must go," she whispered. "If he tells her of me, she will know _exactly_ who he speaks of."

Arthur nodded. Getting out of this place alive was their priority.

Guinevere seemed to know her way around the place quite well, and she led them through a set of small tunnels and passages. The small spaces gave Arthur some trouble, but she helped him move along.

After lengthy manoeuvring, they were out in the open, away from Helios' men. It was a small exit, hidden amongst bushes, facing away from where the warlord's guards were.

"How did you know about this path?" he asked as she ushered him further away, panting from the effort.

"I was brought here last night," she said, "and while they all slept, I…wandered about, I guess. I needed to know how to escape, when the chance presented itself."

He couldn't help but chuckle. Of course Guinevere had had a plan in place.

"Camelot's border is that way." She pointed north. "We can reach it in an hour, if we hurry."

"I can hurry," Arthur said, even though he was in so much pain, he could barely think. He really hoped Guinevere's trick with the pine sap would keep his wounds from reopening.

Just a little over the estimated hour later, they were nearing the border. Sounds of a search party echoed in the distance, and Guinevere rushed him to go faster.

Some good minutes later, they had crossed the border, both breathing heavily from exhaustion. The sounds of the pursuing party grew closer.

"Helios will not take his men across the border," she said quickly. "He won't take the risk. But Morgana will still go after us."

He didn't even get the chance to respond before she was speaking again. "The Knights will be searching for you, they must have noticed you were gone."

"Yeah, I don't think it took them terribly long to notice," he commented wryly. "We were hunting and then I left the party and…you know what, it's not really important. They're definitely searching for me."

She nodded. "You must find them. Do you have an idea of where they'll be?"

"I have a pretty good idea, yes. They'll be west of here."

"Then you must head in that direction. I'll go in the other."

Her words just threw him off completely. "What do you mean you'll go in the _other_ direction?"

"Someone needs to distract Morgana," she said, as if it were obvious. "You are weak from your wounds, she would hunt you down in a second. I'll have her chase me instead, so you can find the Knights."

"No," he protested firmly. "You're coming with me."

She threw a look over her shoulder, growing agitated. "I can't. They are getting closer, we have no time. We move too slowly together; the only chance to get you to safety is to lure Morgana in the opposite direction."

"I will not let you use yourself as bait," he said sharply and grabbed hold of her arm, intent on pulling her along with him. She yanked it away rather easily.

"It's the only way to keep you away from her."

"Guinevere…"

"You are _the King_," she interrupted. "Camelot means nothing without _you_. You must live."

"She will kill you!" he raised his voice, trying to yell some sense into her.

"Maybe," she conceded, her voice wavering a fraction. She was acting on courage she wasn't quite sure she possessed, but she could not let him die. He was the one King she would always protect, no matter the cost.

"You've gone mad," he bit out, taking hold of her arm again. When she made to pull free, he yanked her closer. "I will not lose you again!"

Her breath caught at his declaration, one that had slipped past his tongue involuntarily, and her eyes began to grow heavy with tears. He knew his were too, by the way they burned.

"You didn't lose me, Arthur," she said softly. "You sent me away."

"I know, but..."

She shook her head slowly. "I'm a thing of the past now. Leave it be."

"No…"

"You have a Princess to marry now, and – "

"Guinevere, stop…"

" – you can build the kingdom you've always dreamed of, with her. I've heard of her, they say she's very beautiful, and very kind. She will be a great Queen and – "

"Enough!" he shouted. "You can't die, and certainly not _for_ me!"

She smiled through her tears. "Then I won't die," she said simply. "You may never see me again, but…well, it will be just as if I had gone back into exile."

"Guine - "

"What happens doesn't matter," she cut through, leaning closer. Her hand rose and her fingers brushed against his cheek softly. "I am as I always was, Arthur. A serving girl. Even if you do not see me, the world will not change. But you…so much of the world – the world _I_ hold dear – depends on _you_."

He desperately wanted to make her stop saying all these things and just bring her with him. But the words would not leave his mouth, and he felt as though his own heart would choke him.

She took a deep breath, gracing him with a wide smile. "You will always be my love," she told him. Then, in the blink of an eye, she stood out of his reach.

He called out to her, his voice cracking, but she had already disappeared into the trees. He could not chase her, she was running too quickly.

With a groan, he began walking west, to where he knew – well, _hoped_ – his Knights would be. He would need to find them, then have them help him look for Guinevere. He would not let her die by Morgana's hand – by _anyone's_ hand.

He picked up his pace, forcing himself to go faster, even though his wounds made him stifle howls of pain and grip his side just to keep himself upright.

He would not give Guinevere up, not this time. If he did, he was certain his heart would fail.

* * *

_A/N 2: About the whole pine sap thing. The more specific term would be resin instead of sap, but I'm not sure if the medieval folk made the distinction. If they did...well, it's roughly the same thing anyway. It is a pretty quick temporary patch-up, though, that whole resin/sap business. So, you know, if you ever get mauled by a bear in the woods, toss some of that resin on. Then haul yourself to the nearest hospital, because, well, you did just get mauled by a bear. Also, I do know that, as far as methods of sealing wounds go, doing it with, say, a hot poker to cauterise the tissue is a much more effective (and cleaner, as horrible as that sounds) way of going about it, but I felt it would turn this fic into some sort torture-scenario story. Which, you know, isn't exactly what I was going for here._

_That all said, I hope you have enjoyed this first part. The second will up tomorrow, because my brain cells are currently in no condition to proofread it. _


	4. If I Ever Give You Up (Part II)

**If I Ever Give You Up**

**(2/2)**

As Guinevere struggled to catch her breath, on her knees upon the ground, she heard the soft thudding of Morgana's footsteps. She heard the sound of a blade sliding out of its sheath, too.

The witch had found her. Guinevere had known the chances of eluding her were slim, but she had still hoped, she supposed. Her fate was sealed now, though. Morgana had caught up with her, had sent her flying through the air.

Morgana lowered herself to the ground before her now, resting one knee atop the cover of fallen leaves. She grabbed a fistful of Guinevere's hair, yanking at it to force her to lift her head. With her other hand, she brought the dagger she held to rest at her former maidservant's throat.

Guinevere met the witch's gaze, finding it to be oddly soft. The women's faces were very close now, and Guinevere could not escape Morgana's eyes if she tried.

"Oh, Gwen," the witch said, and her tone almost sounded gentle. "I wanted you by my side when I took _my_ throne, old friend. But you gave your loyalty to another. And you tried to take away what was mine."

Morgana's features tightened in momentary anger, but soon relaxed again. Her head tilted to the side a fraction, as she brushed the steel against Guinevere's skin with near tenderness, and the odd softness returned to her eyes. Like a sort of twisted love.

"I almost pity you, Gwen," she spoke again. "You only loved the wrong man. Poor girl."

Guinevere swallowed thickly, feeling the dagger's edge more sharply against the side of her throat. She supposed she had always known why Morgana hated her; her allegiance to Arthur had made her the enemy.

And now, when her fate was sealed, such hatred was no longer warranted; she posed no threat in her last moments.

But if she was meant to die here, by her old friend's hand, then there was just one thing she needed to know. "I heard you," she managed to find her voice, though it was barely a whisper, "when you told Helios you had gotten rid of me. What did you do, Morgana?"

The witch smiled now, almost with care. "A brave Knight raised from the dead, at my sole command."

"To give me one little bracelet," Guinevere added hollowly, knowing it to be the truth. She could see it all so much more clearly now, all the events of her doomed wedding's eve. She should have known, she thought. She should have known Morgana would never let her be Queen.

Morgana's smile grew at the words, and her fingers in Guinevere's hair loosened their hold, beginning instead to thread through the curls in soft touches.

Guinevere's eyes started to burn with tears as she looked on the witch. The truth made her heart heavy, and Morgana's cruelty made it sore. So much heartache to bear.

The witch noticed the tears and her eyes filled with what a foolish soul could mistake for compassion. "There is no need for tears, Gwen," she said, her voice soothing. "Your troubles will be over soon."

The blade slipped downward, and Morgana's twisted kindness did not waver as her eyes held Guinevere's, even as the dagger ran through the flesh of the maidservant's belly.

Guinevere gasped at the pain, feeling the steel cut her insides. A sob choked her and as her tears fell, so did her body. She leaned forward and Morgana caught her, gently letting her head rest on her shoulder.

"Shh," she soothed again, running a hand over Guinevere's hair. "It will all be over soon."

The pulled the dagger out then struck forward once more, opening a new wound. Guinevere gasped again, more quietly this time. Morgana's thick black dress caught her tears as the witch had her cheek against her shoulder.

She felt the blood pour and soak her clothes, making them stick to her skin. Then, she felt a soft kiss to the top of her head. That alone made her cry out again; such a terrible heart her old friend had.

Morgana laid her upon the ground again, carefully. She smiled down at her. "It's all over, Gwen," she said.

She was gone after that, to chase down 'Leon', Guinevere presumed. The sound of her horse's hooves grew weaker with the second, and soon, the woods around Guinevere were silent.

The sun was setting down and it made the trees look golden, and the sky red. She thought of Camelot and the golden dragon, of the red in which it bathed. The red of blood.

It seemed to drown everything around her, all that blood.

* * *

Arthur knew it was possibly a very foolish thing to be riding at full speed in the state he was in. He just didn't particularly care.

He had found his Knights – and had thanked all the deities he could think of for it – and Merlin, who had all been searching for him for hours, it seemed. They had sent the Princess back to Camelot, for her own comfort and safety, and Arthur was glad of it. He could not have found it in him to speak to Mithian at the moment.

He had given a very brief account of his misadventures to the other men and, when they had kept nagging him for details, yelled at them because Guinevere could be dying and it was all his fault. That had spurred them all into movement immediately.

Retracing the path he had taken and leading his men east this time, he prayed again he would find Guinevere before Morgana could.

He had no such luck.

They found her lying on the ground in the sun's now dull glow, and she was bleeding onto the soil.

"Guinevere!" he shouted, jumping off his horse. It hurt and he stumbled, but he paid the pain no attention as he mostly staggered to where she lay.

He went to his knees beside her, slipped his arm beneath her shoulders. He held her up, resting her head against his shoulder. "Guinevere," he called to her and let out a breath of relief where her eyelids fluttered open, even though her gaze was unfocused. "It's alright, just stay awake."

The Knights were clustering around them, all staring down at her in disbelief. Merlin knelt opposite Arthur, observing Guinevere's wounds with a grave expression. "She's losing a lot of blood, and quickly," he observed.

"Use the pine sap, like she did on me," Arthur commanded hastily. "Go on, you lot!" he shouted at the men. "Find some pines!"

They scattered about in pursuit, and Merlin was the first to find the needed trees. He used his magic to gather the viscous substance in his hands, then began chanting. Gwen's wounds were severe and the internal damage could not be stopped by simply sealing the wounds; she would bleed on the inside, and it would kill her.

The warlock enchanted the sap with a healing spell, hoping it would help matters even a little bit when applied to the wounds. Holding back his tears, he rushed back to Gwen's side, mindful not to let any of the sap spill.

"I've got it!" he announced as he knelt back down. He frowned at the ripped, sheer material covering her stomach; he had never seen Gwen in such clothing. "Get that…_thing_ away," he told Arthur. The latter obliged immediately, grabbing a fistful of the thin material and yanking. The seams which attached it to the rest of the outfit came apart, and her skin was exposed.

Merlin let the sap pour from his hands and he smeared it over the wounds quickly, just as the Knights began returning. Somehow, Arthur was grateful that Elyan wasn't with them, and had instead been dispatched to another search party; he didn't think he could quite bear the look the Knight would surely have in his eyes, should he see what had befallen his sister because of his King.

"One of you," Merlin turned to the Knights, "give me your cloak."

All three men – Leon, Gwaine and Percival – made to obey simultaneously, and Merlin found himself with three cloaks thrown at him. He grabbed hold of one, then slipped it under Guinevere's back, to wrap it around her stomach.

The cloak was too big and the end result of Merlin's efforts looked rather ridiculous, but it did the trick. "We need to get her to Gaius as quickly as we can," he said.

Arthur made to stand, with her in his arms. Even the first was difficult, the second rather impossible.

"Let me, sire," Percival offered his assistance and Arthur had to reluctantly allow him to take over the task. It further took joint efforts from both Leon and Gwaine to pick _him_ off the ground.

"Morgana is still in these woods," he grunted as they helped him mount, while Percival secured Guinevere on his own horse. "I want her found."

"I will see to it that patrols are dispatched, my lord," Leon assured. "As soon as we escort you back to the city."

The road to the citadel was done in a remarkably short amount of time, mostly due to the King's persistence, and Merlin seemed to have tended to Guinevere's wounds quite well, too; her breathing was shallow but steady the entire time, yet Arthur could still not relax. In fact, he would not feel peace again until Morgana was dead, Helios thwarted, and Guinevere his Queen.

He did not care what trouble it would cause him to give her that crown. Mithian could call for his head, and Guinevere herself could try and dissuade him all she liked, he would see it through. He would not let her go this time.

* * *

"Stay still," Merlin chided. They were in the physician's quarters and, while Gaius was examining Guinevere, Merlin was tending to Arthur's wounds further. Except, the King was rather uncooperative. He kept moving about, drowning Gaius in questions and being a nuisance overall.

"Sire, you should let Merlin work," Gaius said.

Arthur ignored them both. "How is she, Gaius?"

The physician brought his eyes back to Guinevere, where she lay on his long dining table. In all the initial hurry, they had simply tumbled all the clutter to the ground and laid her there. The cloak was removed but the sap still clung to her skin, as Gaius was only doing an initial assessment. "Her heart beats strongly," he assured. "I'd say Merlin's expertise saved her life."

Of course, the physician knew the warlock had used magic rather than common remedies. It had still saved Gwen's life.

His words made Arthur grow quiet and he suddenly felt like an ungrateful prat. He turned his eyes to Merlin. "Thank you," he said, apologetic.

His manservant shrugged. "She's my friend," he said simply. "Will you let me tend to you properly now?"

This time, the King complied.

"Gwen did a really good job with these," he commented as he inspected the wounds. "It's probably the only thing that's kept you from bleeding out, what with all the running and riding you've been doing."

Arthur nodded. "She said you taught her how to do it," he told Gaius.

"I did," the physician confirmed, smiling fondly at his now unconscious pupil. "Merlin," he addressed his other apprentice. "Draw the King a bath, and remove the sap. And I believe you know how to treat the wounds once you do."

Merlin obliged, stuffed his pockets with a few remedies, then helped Arthur to his feet.

Once the two men were out of sight, Gaius reached for a blanket and simply covered Gwen up to her chest. He would let Merlin's enchantment heal the internal damage sufficiently before removing the charmed sap; he would then apply some more remedies, close the wounds, and claim a miracle.

* * *

Arthur stood vigil over Guinevere, late into the night.

She still lay on the table, as Gaius had advised against moving her for the time being, and Arthur had brought a chair to her side, to watch over her. She remained unconscious, but Gaius assured the sleep would be beneficial to her healing.

A knock sounded at the door and Arthur knew who the visitor was immediately. He bid entrance and, surely enough, Princess Mithian appeared in sight.

"My lord," she greeted, rather coolly. He supposed he could not fault her for it; he had not as much as spoken to her since returning, much less given her any sort of explanation. In fact, he had simply ignored her presence in the courtyard upon his return to the city.

"Princess." He didn't know what anyone else had told her, if anything at all, and he didn't know if she understood who Guinevere was.

"Your men tell me you have been injured," she said, her tone still flat. "Do you fare better now?"

"Much better, thank you." He kept his eyes on Guinevere; he couldn't quite bring himself to look away.

The Princess took a few steps closer. "She is very beautiful," she remarked. "Who is she?"

Arthur sighed. "Her name is Guinevere," he said. "She…she's my…well, uh…"

"Mistress?" Mithian ventured a guess. He turned to her sharply. "No," he refuted firmly. "She is much more than that."

Mithian raised her eyebrows and Arthur belatedly realised he had said the wrong thing.

"Princess, I – "

"Don't apologise, sire," she interrupted. "Do not mistake me for a love-struck girl, Arthur. Our marriage is a matter of politics, and I did not expect you to love me. It would have been welcome, of course, and I had hoped for a friendship, if nothing else. You may love another, my lord, I cannot stop you. But I will not stand for my husband making a fool of me, and dallying with another for the whole kingdom to see."

Her forward words made him silent for a while. He also realised she had not quite grasped the meaning of Guinevere's presence.

"My lady," he began, lowering his eyes again, "I think you have misunderstood the situation." He took a deep breath. _Here goes my head_, he thought. "I cannot marry you, Princess."

It was Mithian's turn to grow utterly silent. When she did speak, her tone was incredulous. "I beg your pardon?"

He summoned all his courage to meet her eyes. "I know I must seem a very dishonourable man to you right now, but I can't proceed with our marriage. I'm sorry, Princess. I will either have Guinevere as my Queen, or die a bachelor."

Mithian's shock was soon replaced by a careful mask of impassiveness. "I have not heard of a _Lady_ Guinevere in any of the noble families in the kingdoms," she commented flatly.

He shrugged. "She is not a lady," he said simply. "She is a blacksmith's daughter."

"And for her, you would risk your kingship? Your kingdom?" she queried. "You _do_ know my father will _very_ likely declare war over this, do you not?"

"I do know. But…Camelot means nothing without her."

Mithian blinked. "If you love her so, why make arrangements with me to begin with?"

He swallowed, his eyes going back to Guinevere's still form. "She…she's been in exile, these past few months. We were meant to be married but…she betrayed me, and I banished her."

The words felt like bile on his tongue as he spoke them; the regret stung, and the doubt made his heart burn. He had heard Morgana; she had said to have gotten rid of Guinevere. So now, he doubted everything.

"Betrayed you?" Mithian echoed, obviously desiring further details.

He sighed yet again. He might as well be candid with the Princess; he owed her honesty, after his actions. "On the eve of our wedding, I caught her kissing another man."

Again, Mithian grew silent. "So, her crime was adultery," she concluded. "Yet, you did not execute her."

He shook his head. "I could never see her dead."

Another bout of silence. Then, Mithian said, "I see."

Her words were spoken flatly and Arthur could only gauge her thoughts by looking at her. He turned his head sideways and found himself surprised; he had presumed to find her expression disapproving, but instead, she looked rather like she commended his decision. He frowned.

For the first time since the beginning of their conversation, she smiled the faintest bit. "Your sentence may have been a selfish matter of the heart more than anything else, but it still makes you a better man than most, I believe."

His frown only deepened. "What exactly does that mean, Princess?"

She sighed. "These laws on adultery in royal families, I've always thought them to be a hypocrite's business," she said. "A _man's_ business. Because, tell me, my lord, have you ever heard of a noble_man _being executed for adultery? A Knight or a lesser noble, perhaps, once or twice. But a King? A Prince or a Lord?" She took his silence as a negative answer. "Nor have I, but it is ludicrous to think these men do not betray; I have heard of many who were unfaithful to their wives, or betrotheds. Yet, no one thought to seek _their_ heads."

"But a Lady, a Princess, a Queen?" she went on. "Their heads were most definitely sought." Her eyes left his and went to Guinevere, growing softer. "The death penalty," she spoke. "A punishment reserved for murderers, traitors of the crown, enemies of the land – and _women_ who have loved men other than their _noble_ husbands."

She brought her gaze back to his. "As I said, a hypocrite's business." She pursed her lips for a moment, seeming to deliberate, then asked, "May I be very blunt, my lord?"

He saw no other option but to grant the request. "Of course."

"Your father," she began, "the late King, had an illegitimate daughter whilst your mother yet lived. _His_ adultery had come to be known of whilst he too yet lived but – and do tell me if I am mistaken – no one thought, not for a moment, to voice punishment for _him_. " She raised an eyebrow. "And you, sire," she added, "what should I say of you? We are, strictly speaking, still engaged to be married, but here you are, professing your love for another to _me_. And, if your Guinevere were awake right now, I daresay you would do more than just _speak_ of your love." The corner of her mouth quirked into a challenging smirk. "If adultery in noble families were a crime judged fairly, your own laws would call for _your_ head, my lord. But you are a King, and you are a man, and so you have thought nothing of it."

Arthur was positively stunned. Absolutely, utterly stunned.

"Of course," she added after a moment, "my father may still call for your head, but that will have nothing to do with adultery, only with you breaking your word."

He still could not think of anything to say to the Princess. He simply kept staring at her. Her smile widened at his expression. "You did tell me I could be blunt," she reminded him.

"Uh…yes, uh…of course, I…" He shook his head, then chuckled. "Guinevere would like you, Princess," he finally managed to find his voice again.

Mithian's smile dimmed, and she seemed to grow pensive. "Is it wise, Arthur, to give the crown to a common girl?" she queried after a moment.

"If you spent five minutes with her, you would know it's one of the wisest things I could ever do."

She didn't appear particularly convinced, but didn't comment any further. "Perhaps," she conceded instead. "And maybe, if we are not at war and your wishes are indeed granted, I shall see what it is that makes _Queen_ Guinevere so very special."

He grinned at his beloved's future title. He had dreamed of _Queen_ Guinevere for long years, and this future he desired seemed to come so slow. If it would only start already.

He turned his attention back to the Princess, and sighed. "I'm sorry to have grieved you, Mithian."

She sighed in kind. "Well, what can you do? I suppose I would rather have my name disgraced for a few months than bully a man into marrying me. Really, what would _that_ say about me?"

_Yeah_, he thought. _Guinevere would like her._

"I should go," Mithian said after a moment. "I really don't think there is much left to be said."

She made her way to the door, turning back before stepping out. "Of course, you do know that my father will require a rather grand consolation price, if you mean to distract him from thoughts of war."

Arthur thought it over. "How about I grant you all the claim over the disputed lands of Gedref?" he suggested.

"Huh. You do have less pride and more heart than your father, I'll give you that," she remarked. "I will leave at first light, my lord, to give the news to my father. It will not take long for you to hear his answer, I should think." She bit her lip, then added, "I do hope it does not come to war, Arthur." She shrugged. "I am rather one for peace."

* * *

In the morning, after he had seen Mithian on her way, Arthur stood opposite Gaius in the royal chambers and was just about ready to hug the physician.

"So, she _will_ recover?" he inquired, if only to confirm Gaius' words one more time.

The older man smiled. "She will, sire," he assured. "The wounds will take time to heal, of course, but she will recover. Quite honestly, it is a miracle she survived."

Arthur grinned from ear to ear. "How long before she wakes, do you think?"

"She _is_ awake, Arthur," Gaius informed. "She woke just before dawn, and Merlin helped me place her in his room. She has asked after you."

Twenty minutes later, the King was standing in Merlin's room with a bundle of hastily picked flowers in his hands. He was also sore like he could never remember being, but he still grinned at the sight of Guinevere.

She returned the smile, though hers seemed half-hearted at best. He sighed. "Maybe these will cheer you up," he said lightly, presenting her with the flowers. She did smile wider, probably because two of the flowers were wilted, and all the others' stems were cut at different heights. As far as flowers went, this lot was rather pitiful. Still, they made her smile.

"It seems you were wrong this one time," he said after a moment. "I did see you again."

Her eyes left the flowers and rose to his, and her smile dimmed. After a moment, she sighed. "Arthur, you shouldn't be here. Your Princess won't be happy about it."

"Mithian isn't in Camelot anymore," he told her, making her eyes widen in surprise. Apparently, Gaius and Merlin hadn't spoken to her on the matter. "I've…sent her away, which probably doesn't help this reputation I seem to have when it comes to my potential brides." He frowned. "And she wasn't too happy about it, I will admit."

"Arthur!" she chided. "Nemeth could declare war for this!"

"That…is a possibility, yes."

She was too stunned to form words for a long while. She wished she could call him a madman, but she knew why he had done it; why he had all but started a war. Because of her.

The knowledge was a painful thing. "Please," she spoke, "don't give Nemeth cause for war. Not for me."

He had _the nerve_ to shrug. "There's really no one I'd _rather_ start a war for."

"Arthur!"

"Guinevere!"

She groaned under her breath. She took back her earlier thoughts; he _was_ a madman.

"Look," he began after a moment of silence, settling into a chair by her bedside. "I know…_things_ have happened, and I know you would never want to be the reason Camelot's under threat." He tried to meet her eyes, but her gaze was firmly on the sad little flowers in her hands, where she tugged at the petals absentmindedly. "I'm sorry," he told her earnestly. "For everything."

Her eyes flickered to the far end of the room, then to him. They were clouded with oncoming tears. "I spoke to Morgana, when she found me in the woods," she said quietly, surprising him by the shift in conversation. He gave a small nod, waiting for her to continue. "It's almost funny, the way she treated me," she went on. "She would have loved me, had I not loved _you, _and you me. But we did, and so she hated me."

He had known as much, he supposed. He just didn't want to acknowledge it. To think that his love made Guinevere the game of a power-hungry witch's hunt filled him with a guilt he never wanted to bear. "I'm sorry," was all he could think of saying.

"It's not your fault," she soothed. "That is how things work, when the price is a crown."

She looked like she wished to voice another thought but kept the words from leaving her mouth. She seemed scared, almost. Arthur had a pretty good idea of what it was she wanted to speak, but was too afraid to. Frankly, so was he. The doubt was eating him alive but he knew that the guilt, should Guinevere present him with a truth he did not want to hear, would be even worse.

He didn't have the courage to inquire over it now. "I will never let her harm you again," he vowed instead, and he meant it. Even as they spoke, patrols scoured the woods for any trace of the witch. Elyan himself led the largest one, and Arthur had rarely seen a man as determined as the Knight. When he had returned to Camelot at dusk and found that his sister had been stabbed and nearly killed, he had gotten quite wrathful. In fact, Arthur had never seen him so angry before.

They would find Morgana, and they would put an end to her. The King had a plan for Helios as well and preventive strategies were being put in place, to thwart his planned attack. The traitor also needed to be found, and Arthur wholeheartedly meant to consult Guinevere on how best to lure them out; when it came to ingenuity, he had not yet met her equal.

Guinevere's smile had returned at his words but her tears only grew stronger. "Arthur…"

She sounded like she was about to make all of his hopes die, and he could not have that. He reached out and laid his hand over both of hers, where they clutched the flowers in her lap. It took him a moment to find the words he wanted to speak. "I know she did something to you," he managed to admit. "I heard her say she'd gotten rid of you, and I may be too stupid to realise when I'm being played for a fool, but I'm not _that_ stupid."

He lowered his eyes to their joined hands. "I just…I don't think I can bear to learn what it was. Not now, not when…" He sighed. He was just rubbish at trying to convey what was in his heart. He made to put it in simpler terms. "The point is, I…I don't ever want to lose you, or…be away from you again."

She shifted on the bed slightly, slipping her hands from under his. She laid the sorry bundle of flowers at her side, returning one hand to rest atop his, while her other rose to his cheek. He sighed at the touch. "Stay in Camelot," he nearly begged. "I will make it up to you, all of it. Just stay. Please."

"I'll stay," she said softly, running the pad of her thumb over his cheek. Her fingers moved to his hair then, where she played with the short strands in gentle strokes.

He began to grin and she rolled her eyes. "So easily pleased," she commented.

"Only by you."

She gave him a warm smile, making his eyes linger on her lips. It had been long since he had kissed her last – _too_ long, really. He remembered their last kiss well. On the second day of the tourney in honour of the wedding that never was, and just after he had finished a match, she had accompanied him back to his tent. That was the last time they had kissed before he had sent her into exile.

He found himself leaning closer, driven by that last precious memory, to feel her lips on his once more.

A sharp sting of pain went through his side from the angle at which he'd bent; he yelped, jerked back instinctively, staggered a bit and made his chair screech against the floor.

Guinevere's eyes widened, but she was soon biting her lip in amusement. Then, she started laughing at him.

He couldn't help but join her. They chuckled and giggled like they were both mad, gripped at their stomachs because the laughter pulled at their still fresh wounds, then only laughed harder for it.

They had to look absolutely ridiculous.

It was how Merlin found them a couple of minutes later. The King's manservant opened the door, took one look at them, and shook his head before filing right back out of the room again without a word.

The interruption did serve to make them settle down. "I think Merlin just saved both our lives," Guinevere said. "One more minute, and our wounds would have started bleeding again. We could have died from laughing like fools, really."

"That would be a thing of legend." His eyes lowered to the ring which still rested above her heart, and his grin turned into a softer smile. She noticed what had caught his attention and smiled in kind.

"These next few weeks," he began, "are likely to be quite…_busy_. What with Morgana and Helios – and there is a traitor I must find, too. I'm likely to need your help with it all, actually. And well, Nemeth could declare war as well – don't worry, I don't think they will – and there are many things that are left to be said between us, but…" He gave a small shrug. "After the troubles have passed, and when we are at peace…"

The rest of his proposal was left unsaid, but Guinevere seemed to understand his meaning perfectly. Her hand rose to the ring around her neck, where her fingers touched it with care. "When we are at peace," she promised.

He grinned widely. After it was all done – and he would ensure it was so as quickly as possible – and when an age of peace came, Guinevere would be his Queen.

Their slow future was finally starting.

* * *

_A/N: A little scribble about Mithian. I have a very specific headcanon when it comes to her, and that's why I write her the way I do. 'Another's Sorrow' may have completely contradicted that headcanon, but I still like to dream. Also, I know the subject of Agravaine and Gwen's enchantment have not been touched upon, but those weren't really the main focus of the story. But I think you can imagine how it all goes. _

_Anyway, I hope you have enjoyed this two-shot. _

_And, last but not least, do you have any requests for me, my lovelies? Any particular idea that's one-shot (or short story) material you'd like to have written, or any songs you'd like to see used/explored for A/G? **Prompt me, people**. College is over, and I am stuck in Paris until my exam results are up in a month, so I have nothing but time on my hands and an insatiable desire to write. _


	5. In the Shadow of Your Heart

_Prompt: "In the canon era. Camelot's having a feast for Arthur's birthday, A&G meet for the first time." - by LonerSun_

_Short summary: AU. Sometimes, a lady is not all that she seems. _

_Title taken from 'Cosmic Love' by Florence + the Machine._

* * *

**In the Shadow of Your Heart**

It was the same thing every year.

A grand feast, at the end of a week's long tourney, with an overabundance of food, drinks, toasts and vising nobles.

Yes, the Prince of Camelot was celebrating yet another year of his existence. It was almost a tradition, really, this event that was his birthday celebration; nobles from the five kingdoms would come to honour the anniversary of his birth, of the day he had come into the world. He always rather thought of it as the anniversary of the day his mother had been taken from it, though, but he never voiced such thoughts to his father; he could not say how the King would react, but it would certainly not be kindly.

So, here he was; yet another year, yet another celebration. Every time, his father would, in what was likely the least subtle way possible, encourage him to speak to this or that Princess, one or other Lady of high standing. Though it was never explicitly said, Arthur knew his father groomed thoughts of possible marriages with all these women; that alone made the Prince unwilling to as much as exchange one word with them.

Really, when it came to these things – speaking to _girls_, that was – he only truly enjoyed the Lady Morgana le Fay. The daughter of King Uther's closest man and friend, Lord Gorlois, she was always invited to Camelot, and welcome to visit whenever she wished. Arthur had not seen her in three years, though; her father had taken ill, a long illness that made him weak and in constant pain, and Morgana had not left his side since he had been confined to his bed. Gorlois had served Arthur's father loyally for long years and so, when he had fallen ill, the King had not hesitated for a moment to provide the now former Knight with everything he needed. His estate was under Camelot's protection and Uther had vowed to take Morgana under his care, upon her father's last breath.

Arthur would never wish Gorlois dead, but he did like the idea of Morgana becoming his father's ward; he would at least have interesting company. Or just _see_ his old friend again; he missed her quite terribly. She was _almost_ always kind, always forward, and never lacked fodder for a good conversation.

He stood at the front of the throne now, in the vast room which held it, receiving his guests for this year's celebration. His father was not there, having gone to enjoy himself amidst the gathering crowd, and so Arthur had to plaster a smile on his face and greet all the visitors.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just after Lord Godwynn and his daughter had left him; if he could only not be the Prince of Camelot for a day.

"You must be the rudest Prince I've ever met, Arthur."

He could not believe his ears as he heard the voice come from just before him. His eyes flew open, and there she stood; Morgana had come, after three long years. He stared at her, and she raised an eyebrow. "To treat a lady such," she said. "Do I not even get a 'hello'?"

He grinned from ear to ear, and barely resisted to urge to simply hug her; she must have waited for a moment's distraction on his part, to sneak up on him. She always had been one for sneaking about.

She returned his smile, presenting him with her hand. He rolled his eyes; of course she would insist on formalities, if only to tease him. Still, he obliged, and kissed her hand courteously. "It is so good to see you, Morgana," he told her earnestly as he straightened. "I've missed you."

"I wish I could say the same," she retorted lightly, "but I have not thought of you _once_ these past three years." She smirked. "I must keep much more interesting company than you do."

Oh, she had missed him too; he knew it. "And speaking of interesting company," she spoke again, a certain glint of mischief entering her eyes. Arthur frowned as she took a step to the side, revealing another woman standing a few paces behind her. She came forth now, to greet the Prince.

Arthur had never seen her before, and he was certain of that. A girl like her was not one easily forgotten.

Dark of skin and hair – and she had a pair of the most enticing dark eyes the Prince had ever seen, too. Yet, darkness would hardly befit her; her eyes were kind and her smile soft, and she held herself with a grace that seemed to come effortlessly. The mere sight of her felt almost soothing, and Arthur was certain he had never met her like before.

"Arthur, may I present the Lady Guinevere," Morgana made the introductions.

The rare name suited her, Arthur thought. She held her hand out to him – almost shyly, he noted. He took it in his own, and the touch gave him pause. Her skin was soft under his fingers, as he would expect a lady's to be, but her hands were _strong_; not rough by any means, but they were not as supple as those of other ladies. It intrigued him.

He brought the back of her hand to his lips slowly, and held her eyes as he did so. The feel of the skin beneath his lips only served to confirm his earlier thoughts; her hands were not like those of other noblewomen. He noticed her gulp faintly as he kissed her hand, and her eyes widen a fraction; it almost seemed as if this display of formality was foreign to her. Which was ludicrous, really.

A moment later, as he began to straighten, the fleeting oddness in her expression disappeared. Her hand was still in his as she bent her knee, bowing her head graciously. "My lord."

She had a voice to match her nature, Arthur now knew. It was warm, kind and soothing. What was it sailors told, of sirens who could bewitch a man with their voices alone? If he believed such rubbish, he would call her a siren.

"My lady." He looked on her for the longest time, fascinated.

She seemed to become a bit uncomfortable after a while. "Uh, may I have my hand back, my lord?" she asked quietly, almost unsure as if she had a right to the request.

It was only then that he realised he still had not let go. He quickly released his fingers' hold on hers, lowering his hand to the side. Shifting his eyes from the Lady Guinevere to Morgana, he saw the latter smirking.

"This is what happens when you spend your days with no one but your Knights, Arthur," she commented. "You forget how to behave yourself with the ladies."

He glared at her; of course she would want to embarrass him in any way she could. Why had he missed her again?

"Don't tease the Prince, my lady," Lady Guinevere said kindly. "It is his birthday."

His eyes went back to her; she was smiling at him warmly. "Happy birthday, sire," she told him, with genuine kindness. Both her smile and words confused him; royal anniversaries of birth were hardly a sincere celebration of the heart, and it was more politics than anything else. Yet, Lady Guinevere treated him with the affection he heard, though could not speak from experience, was given to birthday boys on that very special day every year, when their coming to the world was marked as a reason for joy.

It surprised him to be given such treatment, and he once again found himself staring at her. Who was this girl, and why was she so different?

She grew uncertain again at his look, casting a glance at Morgana, as if silently asking what she had done wrong.

Morgana, for her part, looked just about ready to throw a fit of laughter. After a moment, she cleared her throat. "Well, my lord, we shan't keep you any longer," she said as seriously as she could manage. "There are many you must yet greet. Come speak to us, when you are rid of that lot."

He barely got the chance to nod numbly before Morgana was linking her arm through Lady Guinevere's, and leading them both away. Arthur kept looking after them, where they joined the crowd, hardly even noticing King Olaf and his daughter, the Lady Vivian, as they regarded him expectantly, waiting to be greeted.

* * *

Morgana could not quite contain her smile as she watched Gwen down the entire cup of wine in one mighty gulp. "That is not how ladies sip on their drinks," she chided teasingly, even as she downed her own cup in little to no time.

Her maidservant barely refrained herself from glaring at her. "It's a good job I'm not a lady, then."

"Oh, hush," Morgana said. "You are tonight." She gave her a crooked grin. "And the Prince is positively besotted. I wager that, before the night is over, he will have written you a song."

Gwen's eyes widened in horror.

"Now, it will be the most terrible song you've ever heard," Morgana went on, "but a song nonetheless."

"My lady," Gwen said, exasperated. "This is madness. I shouldn't have come here."

Morgana's face fell, and her eyes went to the now empty goblet in her hands. "Well, you didn't _have_ to agree to it."

Gwen's jitters ebbed away instantly. She gave her mistress a kind smile. "Yes, I rather think I did."

Her lady had not left the family estate in three years, wishing to keep company to her father. The Lord Gorlois had recently taken a turn for the worse, and the physician had said his days were numbered. Morgana had taken the news to heart and was already grieving, though her father still drew breath. The Prince's birthday feast was an opportunity to cheer her up, even just a little, and to remind her that she still had friends beyond the walls she had confined herself to.

But of course, Morgana had needed further enticement, something guaranteed to both pique her interest and lift her spirits. Gwen had told her to ask for anything and Morgana had gotten ideas. And so, Gwen the Blacksmith's daughter had become the Lady Guinevere for the evening.

And had apparently charmed the Prince of Camelot out of his wits.

Morgana's eyes rose back to hers, her small smile contrite. "I'm sorry, Gwen," she said. "For making you uncomfortable."

"Think nothing of it, my lady," Gwen reassured, resting a gentle hand on Morgana's forearm. The latter's smile widened at the gesture. "At least you get to drink Camelot's best wine," she pointed to the brighter side of things, and Gwen agreed with a chuckle.

"My lady?"

She turned to the side sharply, startled, and there he stood. Arthur Pendragon had apparently grown tired of greeting his guests – or had already greeted them all – and come to them. This would not be so bad, she thought. The Prince and Morgana could do most of the conversation, reminding themselves of their times together, and she could simply keep up with some polite replies of her own.

She was wrong. It would be bad. So very, very bad.

The Prince held his hand out to her. "Would you join me for a dance, my lady?"

_Oh, God, please, no!_ She panicked. "I…I'm afraid I'm not a terribly good dancer, my lord," she tried to dissuade him from this folly. Good Lord, if he only knew who he was _really_ asking for a dance….

He only smiled. "I find that hard to believe."

Gwen stuttered, then turned her eyes to Morgana. _Save me, my lady_, she thought wildly.

Apparently, her mistress would not oblige her desperate thoughts. "Oh, indulge the Prince, Guinevere," she said instead, seemingly in quite the impeccable mood once more. "It _is_ his birthday, after all."

The nerve on her, Gwen thought. Turning her own words against her.

And now, it seemed she had no choice. She glanced back at Prince Arthur, who was still offering her his hand hopefully. She felt her resolve crumble; he seemed quite enthused with the idea of spending a few moments with her – not that she could understand _why_, really. Honestly, what had she done? Wished him a happy birthday?

No matter his reasons, the request still stood and she had to accept. She took his proffered hand and allowed him to lead her to where other couples danced, doing her best to calm her nerves.

Morgana watched them go, tilting her head to the side as she observed their movements. _The Prince of Camelot is courting my maidservant_, she mused, then giggled madly to herself.

Amidst the other dancing couples, Gwen felt terribly out of place. She knew the simplest steps, of course, and thought it would probably suffice; still, she was walking amongst royals and nobles, and pretending to be one of them. All the finery and jewels she had donned for the evening could not erase the fact that she was a common girl, and that she did not belong here.

"Are you really such a terrible dancer?" she heard the Prince inquire, bringing her out of her thoughts.

She chuckled nervously. "More terrible than you can even imagine, sire."

He bit his lip, quite obviously trying to disguise his amusement. "I still don't believe that," he said, "but far be it from me to question a lady."

She frowned in confusion when he simply took hold of her hands, placing one on his shoulder and keeping the other in his. The others around them danced to a rather lively beat, in intricate steps and well-rehearsed moves. The two of them, on the other hand, simply drew slow circles in the crowd, breaking the pattern and harmony.

The Prince didn't seem to care one bit. _Of course he wouldn't_, Gwen thought. _He's the Prince. He can do as he likes_.

"I think you can manage circles, even if you are the world's poorest dancer," he commented as if to further explain his odd choice. "_Everyone_ can manage circles. Even my manservant." He glanced to the side, where a tall, big-eared boy with the blackest night's hair seemed to be collecting overturned dishes from the ground. "Clumsiest oaf on Earth, and even _he_ manages circles," the Prince went on. "I saw him do it once, when he took some poor girl who fancied him – she was mad, probably, to fancy Merlin – to dance in the lower town."

Gwen bit her lip, trying to contain her amusement. The Prince of Camelot…prattled. A lot.

A moment later, he seemed to realise it, too. He faltered, stuttered, then sighed. "I'm sorry," he apologised. "Maybe Morgana is right, and I really have no idea how to behave with ladies anymore."

His words brought a grin to her lips. She had to admit, he was charming…in his own way, of course. He seemed to have a genuinely kind heart, and Gwen liked him for it; it was a rare trait to be found in men of his standing.

He returned her smile for a while, then bit his lip a tad nervously. "My lady," he began with an edge of uncertainty to his words, "could I ask you a rather…_impertinent_ question?"

She frowned. He kept confusing her. "If you wish, sire."

"Your hands," he said, lowering his eyes to the hand he held in his own, to their side. "I don't quite know why, but…they're _different_. Hardened yet gentle, too. How is that?"

Her eyes widened; of all the impertinent questions of the world, she had not expected _that_ one.

She probably should have, though; of course the Prince would notice her serving girl's hands. She may have used a ridiculous array of tricks to make them softer for the evening but they were still not those of the noblewoman she was pretending to be for Morgana's benefit. But of course, she could not confess the truth to the Prince either. She swallowed nervously, didn't give herself time to think her answer over properly, and blurted out that first thing that came to mind. "I…like to make swords."

Judging by the look of shock on his face, _that_ had been the last conceivable answer in his mind. She felt her cheeks burn and lowered her eyes to the ground.

"Swords?" he echoed after a moment of silence; he did it slowly, as if to confirm he had heard it right.

"Uh…well, umm…I'm a blacksm – I mean, a _Knight's_ daughter, but he…uh…he spends a lot of time with the blacksmith, and so I…well, I do too, and I…" She sighed in misery. "I…make swords."

She prayed for the ground to open and swallow her whole. For the ceiling to crack open and a bolt of lightning to strike her down on the spot. For her mistress to finally take pity on her and remove her from this mess. She prayed for _anything_ that would make her disappear that very instant.

"That's brilliant!"

His exclamation made her bring her eyes back to his. He did seem a tad incredulous still, but his features showed excitement above all. She allowed herself to relax a fraction, her breath leaving her in a stuttering little chuckle.

"I've never met a lady who _likes_ swords, much less _makes_ them!" he went on. "Well, Morgana likes swords but that's – I'm just…surprised, I think."

"Pleasantly so?" she queried, though it was obviously the case. She supposed it was hardly unusual; his reputation as a warrior, even at his young age, preceded him, and she would wager there were few things he liked more than his weaponry.

He nodded enthusiastically, then turned pensive. "Just to be clear, when you say swords, you mean _actual_ swords, right?"

"Obviously," she responded flatly. "I don't make toys for children, if that's what you thought."

"No, of course not," he immediately backtracked, and she realised he thought he had offended her. She almost laughed at the idea; a Prince worrying over offending a serving girl.

"I'm sorry," she said. "This must all seem so very strange to you; it's natural for you to be disbelieving of such a thing." She gave him a small smile. "But, strange as it may be, I do know how to forge a sword." It had to be madness, she thought, that drove her to _keep_ speaking of the matter. "Not as well as my – the _blacksmith_ who taught me, but I can make a decent blade." She chuckled. "Really, I know just about everything there is to know, when it comes to a smith's craft."

He listened to her every word and, though he looked positively enraptured, Gwen still noticed a slight glint of condescension in his eye. He probably didn't believe her the extent of her expertise, she realised; he was just humouring her by not commenting on it.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. "You doubt me?"

He seemed like he was about to refute, but gave up with a small sigh. "I just find it…_unlikely_, that's all," he said, and the condescension seeped into his tone as well.

Gwen felt the need to amend her previous, flattering assessment of him; a kind heart, he might have, but he was just as arrogant as any other man of his standing.

And, Prince or not, no one questioned a blacksmith's daughter's knowledge.

"Ask me anything you like," she presented her challenge. "And see just how unlikely it is for me to give you the _wrong_ answer."

He blinked in surprise for a moment, and she began to worry she had truly overstepped this time, in her stubborn attempt to defend her knowledge. His lips drew a wide grin after a moment, though, as he accepted her challenge – and seemed to enjoy it, too.

"Alright," he said, glancing down at himself. "Tell me all you can of my armour."

_Armour?_ She thought. To question her on such a mundane part of the smith's trade, honestly. It was probably an offense in its own right, to underestimate her _that_ much.

Still, she would give him the answers. She looked him over, and nearly giggled to herself; he wore most of his armour this evening, along with the crimson Camelot cloak over his shoulders and a sword at his hip, as if he were expecting an attack any second. Although, to be fair, Morgana had told her stories of stranger things happening at celebrations in Camelot.

Focusing back on her task, she slipped her hands from his, resting them on his arms. "You are wearing your pauldrons, and your gardbraces." She moved her hands to his shoulders to touch the latters, then slid them down to his forearms. "Your vambraces, though you are missing your gauntlets." Her hands rose up again, to the metal covering the upper portion of his chest. "Your breastplate, of course." She moved her fingers lower, just beyond the edge of the breastplate and onto the chain of mail. "And your hauberk – which is quite well-polished, I must say."

She lifted her gaze once more, just about ready to smirk in satisfaction. She faltered when she met his eyes, though; he was giving her an odd look, and it suddenly made her realise she had moved her hands all over the Prince in a rather inappropriate way. The look in in his eyes, however, was not reproachful, indignant, angry or anything such; it made her heart race for rather different reasons.

His gaze dropped to her lips momentarily, and she only then recognised the true extent of her madness. Because that was what this evening's entire charade meant; pure, boundless madness. She had let it get way out of hand.

She quickly dropped her hands, taking a hasty step back. "I'm sorry, my lord," she mumbled, averting her eyes.

He seemed confused for a moment. "What for?"

The question had too many possible answers, and she decided not to voice a single one. Instead, she promptly changed the subject, putting an end to their little dance in the process. "We should return to the Lady Morgana, sire. She did only really come here to see you."

His confusion waned and now, he only looked disappointed. Nevertheless, he nodded. "Of course," he agreed. He hesitated for a moment, but offered her his arm in the end. She blushed as she slipped her hand past the crook of his elbow, feeling both silly and mortified for her previous actions. What had she been thinking, to be so forward with the bloody _Prince_ of bloody _Camelot_?

She meticulously avoided looking at him as he led them back to where Morgana stood.

"I was starting to think you'd forgotten me," her lady teased as they came before her, and Gwen immediately let go of the Prince's arm. She did take care not to do it too quickly, lest she offend him. She really did not want to add to her embarrassment.

"You would never _let_ us forget you," Prince Arthur countered, and Morgana grinned.

"Quite right. So, did you enjoy yourselves?" she queried.

_Why, my lady? Why must you enjoy seeing me suffer?_ Gwen thought despondently, yet gave a pleasant smile nevertheless.

"It turns out I truly am a terrible dancer," she said before the Prince could get involved in the conversation. "But I am quite tired," she added. "I will retire for the evening, if that's alright, my lady?"

Morgana smiled, but she was still obviously just a little disappointed. "Of course, Guinevere."

Gwen nearly sighed in relief. She turned to the Prince. "It was lovely meeting you, sire," she told him, and did mean it. Her own mortifying missteps and his casual arrogance aside, she did find him quite…lovely.

"Likewise," he said, the odd look from before returning to his eyes. Gwen would need to ask Morgana later, about the words for it. There had to be some, likely in songs or poems.

Her heart raced again. "Goodnight, my lord," she said, curtseying.

"Goodnight," he echoed softly, letting his eyes rest on her even as she retreated out of sight. She intrigued him, in many ways. A lady who knew of swords – who _forged_ swords – and had peculiar hands; one who spoke with kindness in her every word, and had a sharp mind, too. He really had never met her like.

Morgana watched him look on Guinevere's retreating form, her smile growing wan. There was no mistaking his interest and she felt even guiltier than she did before, for putting this little spectacle into motion. She had known Arthur for long years, and never once had she seen him so fascinated with a girl – with _anyone_, really.

He would want to see her again, she was certain of that, and he would get his wish. It pained her horribly, but she had to accept her father would soon leave her; when he did, she would come to Camelot, and where she went, Guinevere followed. She doubted any of the nobles at the evening's feast would recognise her, when she was no longer clothed in a lady's attire. Arthur would, though; Morgana knew it. And it would be a moment of disillusionment, to learn this lady who enticed him so was a maidservant. Morgana gave little bearing to standing and noble blood, but Arthur was Uther's son; he still cared for such things. Perhaps, one day, he would stop.

Still, it would be impossible for him to sustain any idea of courtship, and Morgana hated that her own silly tryst would wound him so. The moment of truth was still not upon him, though.

_Let him dream for the night_, she thought. _It is his birthday, after all._

* * *

_A/N: About the armour business...I tried, people. I tried. But eff me if I'm sure to have gotten it right. So, if it's all a blunder, do excuse me. I thought to consult the series itself, but then, what Gwen calls a hauberk there is actually a breastplate, according to the internet, and a hauberk is actually chainmail. Which, you know, calls into question the TPTB's abilities to research. Not that they cared much for that, I should think. Or maybe the breastplate was actually called a hauberk in one spec of British land at some point...oh, who the hell knows, anyway?_

_That all said, I do hope you have enjoyed. Also, I thank you for all the submitted prompts, and do keep them coming :)_


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